


Trigger

by DJRezYourGays



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, I'm so sorry, TW: Blood, i'm doing it backwards >.>, is there such a thing as comfort/hurt?, tw: death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJRezYourGays/pseuds/DJRezYourGays
Summary: Amélie Lacroix recalls a sweet morning spent in the arms of her lover - a dream come true, until the nightmare creeps back in.MicroWriMo 2017Prompt: Warmth





	Trigger

“Whatcha thinkin’, love?”

Amélie woke to the warmth against her cheek - the soft, familiar touch of the young woman lying in bed beside her. The sunlight streaking through the blinds cast golden streaks through Lena’s wild brown hair. She had the vaguest memory of thunder, but it felt like something from a dream.

Last night felt like a blur, a pink rush of breath and lips that tasted of red wine and urgency. Waking up felt like falling out of a dream, some twisted mirror of the world instantly forgotten in the safety of her lover’s arms.

“Ça n'en vaut pas la peine,” Amélie mumbled, shifting to dart a quick kiss onto Lena’s palm at her cheek before stretching out the soreness in her shoulders and blinking the haze from her eyes so she could see the woman better. “It’s nothing.”

“Bad dreams again?”

The worry on Lena’s face cut through the fog clouding her mind in an instant. She could only nod to the question, curling in tightly as Lena surrounded her in a protective embrace. For the briefest of moments she had considered lying to the girl, but there was as much hope of that as there was of her sprouting wings.

She felt a light kiss on the top of her head and shut her eyes, listening to Lena’s shaky breathing. The girl was just as nervous as she had been the night before, it seemed. Strange then that she made Amélie feel so safe in her arms.

She might’ve been content to lie there forever, soaked in sunlight yet somehow still cold everywhere her body wasn’t tangled up in Lena’s. She felt happily adrift in time, an amusing thought given the device softly glowing in its harness in the corner. But Lena began to pull away.

“What is it?” Amélie asked, feeling her fingers cling to the woman all on their own, desperate not to lose what felt like the only warmth left in the world. 

Silence. “Lena?”

Amélie looked up, and a much deeper chill embraced her. Gérard’s face stared, pale and cold, a thin line of blood still trailing down from the wound she herself had given him. “No...”

She shut her eyes tight and turned away as he clutched her arm. Just another nightmare, she told herself. It wasn’t real. His hold on her grew painful. His hand was icy cold, and soon her skin felt numb.

Then his grip softened and he began to pull away, and Amélie opened her eyes. She hoped more than anything to see Lena’s face awash in sunlight, no doubt rife with worry by now. 

Instead she saw another woman entirely - the LumériCo security guard, wearing the same wound the specter of Gérard had worn - drifting lifelessly to the floor. Her dead hands still clutched at Amélie in vain, her eyes wide with fear, frozen in her final moments. 

Before the body slumped at last to the floor, Amélie could already hear Reaper’s voice growling in her ear. “Widowmaker, report! Are you in position?”

The present drifted back to her slowly, like a fog settling in around a quiet London flat. The mission. The access codes. Her target. The unfortunate security guard who had snuck away from her post to grab a smoke, only to run into the assassin making her way into position.

“I am here,” Widowmaker replied.

“What happened?”

Amélie reached up to touch her cheek, feeling a rapidly fading warmth clinging to her blue skin. She pulled her hand away and spotted the blood on her fingertips. She looked down at the security guard. At her short, wild brown hair. At her young face. 

“Ça n'en vaut pas la peine,” she said, tucking the rifle stock against her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”


End file.
